Shark In A Fancy Suit
by Sine Timore Metu
Summary: Kylar is one of many unlucky strays living on Gotham's streets- a child who's been homeless since the untimely death of her parents. Forced to become a pawn in one of a Fish Mooney's sick games, Kyle may not be all she seems to be- and the lines between victim and perpetrator have begun to blur. OC/Oswald Cobblepot
1. Chapter 1

Everything hurt.

From the uncomfortable tautness of my skin, deep down to the aching of my bones, nothing was whole or undisturbed. My eyes burned furiously, and when I attempted to open them, sharp pain spread across my forehead. Plump maroon droplets slid down my face, several collecting in the indents of my tear ducts, irritating the tender area further. My sudden facial movement must've opened up a cut.

It took me several precious seconds to get my bearings- my head was spinning, and the edge of my vision was dark. I waited until my sight had cleared and the room had ceased spinning; what I saw made my chest jump irregularly, as if my heartbeat had been briefly interrupted.

I was in a bar of some sort, one that was high end by Gotham standards. At happy hour, it probably was a bustling establishment, with the luxurious booths occupied by wealthy men in tailored suits, showing off their trophy wives, and drinking champagne at seventy dollars a bottle. Right now, however, the building was almost empty. The lights were dimmed, the bar was empty, and the stage was hidden behind dark curtains. I would have been completely alone, if it wasn't for the four other people standing a few paces away.

A sexy, dangerous looking women glared down at me from underneath the bangs of a jagged pixie cut, the rich tone of her hair contrasting the violent pink of its tips. She was dressed in a tight fitting golden dress, that shimmered, even in the poor lighting. Thin golden hoops hung from her ears, and there was a slight silver sheen to her eyelids, which sprouted thick black lashes.

To her right, standing only a hairs breadth or two behind the women, was a relatively tall, stocky man, with a square face, wide nose, and small, ovular eyes. His plain brown hair was receding, and a thick neck attached his head to straight, broad shoulders. The man's features were vaguely piggish, but something in his expression made me think he was smarter then he looked. While his hands were behind his back, the outline of a gun could be seen protruding from his pocket.

On the women's other side stood a taller, slimmer, black man, with a thin layer of light, fuzzy, brown hair covering the top of his head, along with his jowls, chin, and upper lip. His expression was blank, and he had a vague, angry glint to his eyes, that seemed to be directed at everything at once.

I took them in within a few moments of unabashed staring, but I only had a split second to notice the last character- a short, skinny man, with flesh so pale it almost seemed grey. He reminded me of a raccoon- the dark rings encircling his eyes resembling a dark mask. The Mab's long, somewhat hooked nose did not distract from the sharp, uneven positions of his yellow teeth, and greasy black hair sprouted at random from his scalp. There was a certain nervous energy to the man, who didn't resemble anyone else in the room. Despite being dressed in a fine suit, he looked out of place- with an awkward stance, and a loose expression.

"Wake up darling, we don't have all night," My attention slipped back to the dark skinned women, who's voice was a dangerous drawl. She looked... familiar. As this thought occurred, a name began to spell itself out in my pounding head.

_Fish Mooney._

On the inside, I cringed, the throbbing in my temples adopting a tribal beat at this revelation. Mooney was crime boss Falcone's favorite toy: a tiger with a human body, who'd lately started nipping at the hand that feeds. Violent, unpredictable, and a queen-pin mobstress with sex appeal to boot, word on the street was she'd give anyone a job- so long as you've got talent.

Her bar was also a virtual bee hive of every color in crime. Drug dealers could share drinks with anyone from a smuggler to a petty thief, and the alley outback had a mortality rate higher than lung cancer. It was like sin city central.

Blinking away the dark spots tap dancing across my vision, I began struggling to my feet, arms shaking unsteadily. Before I knew what was happening, I was pushed down roughly, a silver bat pressed into my chest that pinned me on my back. My mind should've been racing, but it was eeking along at a snails pace; I couldn't remember what happened before I woke up. Panic slowly began to sink in. This was bad, bad, bad. I'd been in some tight situations, but this? This was fucking clastrophobic. I looked up at the gangsters, eyes flitting fearfully between them.

"Don't worry doll, I think there's been a big misunderstanding," Mooney simmered, offering what might be considered a sympathetic smile. It sounded like a threat, but I nodded stupidly, trying to get my mouth to work properly. It wasn't doing a very efficient job at cooperating.

"I.. I agree.. def.. definitely been a.. a misunderstandin. . ." My words were slurred, and halting, and dimly, I knew something was off... I couldn't remember how I got here..

I tried to stand again, but the man to Mooney's right (I think his name was Bruce... Or was it Butch...?) kicked me in the chest, causing me to fall back, and knocking the air out of my lungs. Distantly, I knew Mooney was talking, but I was too busy gasping for air to pay attention. When I saw Brunch (close enough) aiming another kick at me, I flinched out of the way, much to his displeasure, but Fish had him back off before he could try again. He stepped away, content to sneer at me from behind Mooney's shoulder, and I felt a pulse of heat in my stomach. Pain and confusion were slowly evolving into anger. Only fear kept me from saying something I surely would've regret.

"Listen, I dunno why I'm here, so could I just go? I won't be back, cross my heart.." Even to my ears it sounded pathetic, but I couldn't find the energy to care right now. Fish could be reasoned with, I'm sure of it...

As if eavesdropping on my thoughts, the handsome women laughed, a cold, cruel sort of noise that quelled some of my fury. Her tone was soft, but predatory when she replied.

"I didn't get to be where I am by being generous, dollface. Nor by being a fool. Tell me your name," I wanted to refuse, because giving Fish Mooney my contact info seemed about as sane as sleeping in an oven, but I suspected saying 'I'd rather gargle battery acid' wouldn't go over well.

"Kylar." It came out louder then I'd meant to, but she paid no heed to this, simply raising an eyebrow.

"No last name?" I shook my head, keeping my eyes locked on her.

"What do your friends call you, dear?" Without a beat, I replied, trying my best not to sound as deeply suspicious as I felt.

"I don't have any friends." She laughed again, and there was ripple of murmuring from her henchmen, as they joined in. The noise was distressingly unpleasant, and I felt a trickle of dread in my chest. I froze when she fixed me with her black eyed gaze, something I couldn't read playing around her mouth. Without warning, her lips parted, revealing a brilliant, white toothed smile, that filled me with alarm. I felt sick.

"That's alright; we'll be your friends now."


	2. Chapter 2

Oswald Cobblepot liked me. He liked me a lot.

Well, perhaps a better way to phrase that was, Oswald Cobblepot liked the fact that my existence had raised him from scape goat status to an actual member of Fish's gang. Or at least, put him above someone in Mooney's strict-but-highly-perverted hierarchy, because being the bottom of the pecking order was better then being the rug the pecking order stands upon.

I was that rug, and the only thing Oswald Cobblepot liked more than me was using his superiority to abuse his one and only underlying. Which happened to also be me.

I figured this out on day one. Day one fucking sucked.

It had started with waking up in a place I didn't know, to the sight of a face I didn't recognize, so I could participate in a job I didn't want. Oswald was that face, and my sleeping quarters were one of the booths closest to the stage. My surroundings were composed mostly of dark, rich brown wood, with yellowed lights pouring from tear glass chandeliers, and the luxurious surface of the bar curved around a sundry of multicolored alchohalic beverages. Long legged black chairs with thin, tan ovals as seats lay scattered about like lone dancers, and in the very back, a rufescent colored, upraised wall stretched, uniform indents layed down in columns and rows. Vaguely, I recalled Mooney explaining that the outer tables were in constant danger of broken glass or bullets- drive-bys weren't uncommon in Gotham. I must have heeded her word, because the one thing I didn't have to suffer through upon waking up was sunlight.

Which was good, because everything else went to hell.

When I first woke, it was without warning, forced back into the world of the living, when only seconds ago, I was dreaming. I was asleep, and then I was not, and I couldn't think of what could've woken me, until it happened again. The first smack was a love tap, the second one was not. I felt my nerves seize painfully, my left shoulder stinging from the blow, and cried out, trying to shield my head from further assault. It didn't come, much to my unrelenting suspicion. When I felt it was safe to look up, I did, cautiously glaring at my surroundings with distrust oozing from every pore. I saw Oswald's face as I turned, twisted by something resembling glee, and only narrowly escaped another blow to the head by slithering onto the floor. Above me, something snapped, and Oswald swore, too softly for me to hear his exact words. He began to crouch down, and I responded by kicking him in the shin, hard enough to extract a low howl of pain as he stumbled over. I jumped to my feet, banging my neck on the tables edge in my haste to get to higher ground. Natural instinct told me to flee, but fear of Mooney's wrath was enough to motivate me to stay.

It didn't, however, stop me from stomping on Oswald's delicate hands, feeling the bones tremble beneath my foot as he whimpered in pain. Up close, he looked a lot smaller, a lot skinnier, and a lot more dangerous. His eyes were disconcerting for reasons I couldn't place, but the intelligence in them was unsurprising. Mooney certaintly didn't keep Cobblepot around for his physical superiority.

I was drawn from my thoughts by his movements beneath me, and watched as he tried to wriggle free. I edged the heel of my boot down his wrist, making him freeze, but before I could do any more damage, Mooney's voice broke over me like a frigid wave.

"Be careful with my little Penguin- he isn't your property to break." Reluctantly, I backed away, letting the skinny man climb to his feet. I noticed his umbrella had broken, which must have been the object he'd hit me with, and I sneered at him as he rubbed his arm. He was glaring at Fish with something akin to hatred. She didn't notice. Turning to Mooney, I allowed my gaze to fall slightly, attempting to look apologetic, despite the bitter taste of anger stuck in my throat.

"It won't happen again, so long as you keep your playthings in check." Mooney seemed to find this extremely amusing, laughing like I'd made a joke.

"Never tell me what I can or cannot do, doll. You'll live longer." Her words sent a nasty chill through my spine, and I flexed my fingers unhappily, shooting Oswald a dirty look while he was inspecting the damage done to his umbrella. I noticed that Butch hadn't come with her this time, which was more alarming then it was relieving. Her only other companion was a long, wiry haired man in a fedora whom I didn't know, dressed smartly but not expensively, and angled toward her in a way that made my scalp prickle. The air tasted like sexual tension and a spectacular degree of mistrust.

"Kyle, this is Harvey." I surveyed him suspiciously, because while his expression was relaxed and cheerful, his eyes felt hard in all the wrong places, and he didn't look like any criminal I'd ever met.

"Is he another one of your boy toys?" I asked, barely masking my distaste behind the tang of innocence. Fish laughed, Harvey did not.

"No, doll. He's a nice detective who's here to ask a few questions about the tragic disappearance of one of my waiters," her voice dripped with laughter and malice, and I raised my eyes at the man. So a dirty cop. I fucking hated dirty cops. There was a special place in hell for dirty cops, right next to child molesters and pedophiles. Maybe I didn't have a fantastic morale compass, but I hadn't gone into law enforcement either.

Harvey offered his hand, and I grudgingly allowed him to take it. When he leaned down to kiss it, I shuddered, pulling back with more than a little haste. He didn't seem to notice, but Fish did, and she shot me a warning look. Despite having spent the night at the bar, I wasn't really sure why I was here, other than I had no other place to go, and Mooney had promised to protect me, and care for my basic needs for as long as she had need of me. I hadn't a clue what that was, but I had the unshakeable suspicion that I wouldn't like it. Still, it was better then spending yet another day freezing my ass off huddled in the filthy alleyways of Gotham. The city wasn't just rotting from the inside; the actual infrastructure was crumbling, and the streets were poorly paved and cracked. The hidden pathways known to the homeless network were dangerous, and even the nicer parts of Gotham's underground were thick with sexual predators, and the kinda criminals that had lost the better part of their soul selling kids to the highest bidder. It wasn't worth the risk.

"Why don't you show Kyle the works, Hun?" Mooney directed the comment at Oswald, who's face had become deceivingly temperate; he nodded, smiling his crooked toothed smile, and waddled off, deeper into unknown territory. I cast an uneasy gaze at Fish, but she wasn't looking, deep in conversation with Harvey.

Taking a last, mournful glance at the outside world, I hurried after the smaller man, wondering miserably if this mistake would trump all others I had made.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as Mooney and the creepy fedora man were out of earshot, I elbowed Oswald in the ribs, hard enough to make him lose his footing. As he stumbled, I reached out, and instinctively grabbed him by the collar, slightly alarmed at how frail he was; I hadn't been trying to mow him over. Now that I was up close, and no longer preoccupied from protecting my head, I could see the man much more clearly. He was painfully skinny, and his bones were small, with wrists so thin that I could wrap my thumb and pinkie finger around his forearm and still have them touch. His skin was the color of grey chalk, and seemed to cling unhealthily to the lines of his frame, and the area around his eyes was sunken and dark, quite a contrast to the bright, intelligent green of his irises. Bruised lips covered the rows of uneven teeth, and he felt slick in my grasp, as if there was only liquid beneath the expanse of his sickly white skin.

The black of Cobblepot's suit was sharper than steal against ashen hued flesh, and I could see tiny flecks of dandruff clinging to his dark, oily, hair. He felt awkward, way too slippery to trust, and wrong, like God had forgotten something when he put him together in his mother's womb. It was unsettling and enthralling, and I hated it.

Dear God, I hated it.

"What the hell was that for?" My voice was a violent, uneven hiss, and he seemed to shrink to about half his size, which wasn't exactly very big in the first place. His shoulders bowed inwards, and his face contorted into an expression of fear.

"I-I'm sorry, m-ma'am, I-I thought you were on-one of the h-homeless people that s-sometimes stick-around af-after the club is cl-closed. M-Mooney doesn't like it when t-they sleep on the b-benches." I glared at him for a good fifteen seconds or so before letting go abruptly. I wasn't sure I believed him, but instinct told me that he was too smart to make enemies with. He watched me with careful eyes, and I felt as if I was being measured and judged. I interrupted his staring with a frigid, brittle tone.

"Fine, just don't let it happen again. Now show me the ropes, Oswald." He nodded rapidly, setting off at an awkward, tottering pace, and I felt an unwarranted pang in my chest, a fluttering of weakness that settled uncomfortably in my mouth. Gotham was no place for the frail or handicapped- the kids were as hard as the people, and concepts like a no bullying policy just didn't take root in the cities school systems. I could almost taste the bitter brokenness in his gait.

Following after Oswald (which was not as easy as it looked, let me tell you, that bastard's quick), I tried my best to listen to his poorly oriented tour of the club. I suspected Fish just wanted me out of the way so she could talk to that Harvey guy in privacy, but I didn't say anything to Oz(Oswald is just too long of a name for me to bother employing), as I didn't want to start off... whatever the fuck this is, on a bad note. I was unhappy about the situation as it were, no reason to make a bad thing worse.

In the back of my mind, I knew I should run while I still had the chance. Knock Cobblepot out and flee, leave the city for good, because Gotham is a sinkhole, and if you don't get out fast, you don't get out at all. It would be in my best interest to accept that this place wasn't savable, and even if it was, it wasn't worth saving. That my mislead loyalty to the hell hole I call home was the braided rope of a noose, and every step forwards took me closer to the gallows.

Fish Mooney may well be by my executioner.

Yet, even as this thought passed through my mind, bringing with it a spectacular assortment of emotions and unwelcome doubts, another came to calm the waters of my raging thoughts.

Afterall, I probably wasn't worth saving either.

I heard Oswald speaking in his shaky, uneven voice ahead of me, and looked up at the ceiling. It seemed impossibly high, an untangible surface blocking out the sun and the stars, leaving me to walk in the shadows cast by the corpse lights of this fancy cemetary. Not realizing Oz had stopped, I almost ran into him, irritation sparking at the inconvinience.

"What the hel-" I stopped abruptly, mid speech, and felt my stomach drop through the floor, feeling a lump swell in my throat. Irritation metamorphisized into every shade of fear and panic from here to hell.

The Devil was standing in the doorway, and his name was Carmine Falcone. Without consciously doing so, I backed up, against the wall, eyes shifting rapidly between Os, who seemed frozen in fear, and Falcone, who was smiling as he talked to the man guarding the door into the alley. Without his reputation preceeding him, Falcone could've been mistaken for a handsome, middle-aged family man, who had brunch with his daughters every Sunday, and enjoyed a close friendship with the mayor. He was, within reason, very charismatic, and highly intelligent.

He was also the Patriach of Gotham's largest crime organisation, and a sick, cold blooded killer.

Beside me, Oswald came to life, his expression rearranging itself into a slippery smile, as he began waddling towards the backdoor. I forced myself to follow him, because one of Falcone's guard dogs had caught sight of us both, and holding back would just make me appear weak. I couldn't afford that, especially with whatever Mooney's plans for me were. Falcone looked up as one of his bitch-boys tapped him on the shoulder, gesturing towards us; his eyes passed over Oz, before coming to rest on me. I could see his mind quietly picking its way over my features, inhaling me, and then exhaling the remainments in haphazard, careless pieces.

I was being judged, and discarded, and I was terrified and furious in equal measures but in opposing instances.

"Salve[1], Mr. Falcone," His expression held a grain of suprise, and he smiled, a friendly, warm thing that tasted like razor blades and blood. Penguin (Or whatever Mooney had called him) smiled eagerly, offering his hand. Falcone took it briefly, as the black haired man stammered.

"I-It's an h-honor t-to meet y-our s-sir." I suspected this was not a completely uncommon reaction, because he seemed more irritated than anything, but that may just be because we were in his way. Realizing I should probably show some sign of respect, I offered my own hand, and, to my relief, he shook it (unlike Harvey). His grasp was steady and firm, not bone crushing or possessive, but I could feel the strength of it, and the threat it held was unmistakable.

"Nice to meet you Mrs. . ?"

"Kylar," I was the first to pull away, earning myself a shark like smile for my trouble. Turning away without a backwards glance, Carmine and his entourage disappeared deeper into Mooney's nightclub. I almost felt bad for Fish. Almost.

Looking over at Penguin, I caught a funny look plastered across his features. It reassembled that of a starving wolf, desperate and raw and dangerous. The expression faded from his face quickly, replaced by his unsteady, lopsided grin, but I had seen his eyes, and they were hungry.


End file.
